The Rules of Inheritance

by Smith, Claire Bidwell

  Their marriage was over within five years, both of them too young, too stupid to see it through. My mother stayed on in Manhattan. She had become a New Yorker—it was where she was always meant to be, she felt. She married again in her early thirties. That one only lasted a year. She was thirty-seven, living month to month in a walk-up near Murray Hill, when my father rang her buzzer unexpectedly one warm June morning.

  THE NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL I am sitting in Home Ec when Tonia walks by. We met in fourth grade and became fast friends. Our families couldn’t have been more different, but neither of us cared. As it turns out, Tonia will not be one of those girls who gets stuck in Destin. She’ll go on to run an aviation company, be president of it even. Just like she always said.

  Tonia pauses awkwardly and looks down at the bottle of berry nail polish that I have placed in front of me. It has become like a talisman, this bottle. A symbol of something bigger.

  Where did you get that?

  I stole it, I say, hoping to impress her.

  She flinches and I feel a thread of excitement run through me.

  I could get some for you too, I say. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  Her eyes light up. Really? And then they darken again, remembering that we aren’t friends anymore.

  Sure, I say. I could get some for Jamie too.

  Whatever, she says suddenly, trying to downplay her enthusiasm.

  But it’s too late. A plan has been formulated. This is how I’ll win her back, I decide.

  I have to get off the school bus every afternoon at an intersection with a Circle K convenience store. From there, I walk two blocks up, to where my parents are working. The kids on the bus tease me. They say my mom works at the Circle K. My cheeks burn as I make my way down the steps of the bus to the sidewalk.

  They couldn’t be further from the truth.

  When we lived in Atlanta, my friends had been the children of ambassadors, of lawyers, doctors, wives who sat on the boards of museums and husbands with wine cellars that rivaled my father’s.

  Here in Florida, what friends I do have usually live with just one parent. They have four or five siblings. Their parents are young, work all day, and return home at night to drink six-packs of beer in front of the television. My parents aren’t friends with any of them.

  I actually love these families. I love how different they are from mine, and I am enchanted by the liveliness of a Saturday morning in one of their homes. But right now, walking up the street, the Circle K behind me, I hate them all.

  They know nothing, I think.

  As I walk up Route 28 I begin planning my heist. When I will go, what colors I will choose. I think about how Tonia and I will be friends again. About how maybe school won’t be so torturous anymore.

  By the time I get to the restaurant I’m burning with my plan.

  As usual, my mother is in the kitchen and my father is in the office.

  Hi, sweetie, my mother says, smiling softly at me as she sifts flour into a large metal bowl. How was school?

  Fine.

  Do you have homework?

  Not really.

  Why not?

  I did most of it on the bus, I say.

  This is a lie. I know it’s only a matter of time before my mom finds out how behind I am in my classes, but for now I’m determined to keep up the illusion.

  Do you want to help me with this cake?

  Nah, I say, I’m think I’m going to Kmart. I want to see if they have any new Baby-Sitters Club books.

  Okay, honey. Do you need any money?

  Nah, I say again, and my mother nods absentmindedly as she scans a recipe book, drawing her finger down the page until she finds what she’s looking for.

  Inside Kmart I wander through the clothing section for a few minutes. I have specific ideas about what makes me look conspicuous and what doesn’t. I think that pretending to browse for long periods of time in random parts of the store simply makes me look like an indecisive customer.

  Finally I make my way over to the cosmetics section.

  I spend a long time mulling over the different colors and combinations. After several more minutes I finally make a decision. A soft, classic pink for Tonia and a deep magenta for Jamie.

  As I go over these choices I notice that a man has appeared behind me. He is looking over a display of fishing tackle boxes. I’ve already managed to slip the two lipsticks into my pocket, but I have yet to take the nail polishes that match.

  I risk a glance at the man. He is in his midthirties, plainly dressed, expressionless. Maybe he is just a customer, I think. But something in my gut tells me otherwise. I briefly consider leaving, forgetting about the nail polishes for now. But then I think about Tonia and how much I want to be friends again.

  Suddenly the most brilliant idea occurs to me. I’ll just keep them in my hand and walk over to another section, like I’m still browsing. I mean, that’s what I would do if I was going to buy them, right?

  I do just that, and in the toy section, after taking a quick look around to make sure no one is watching me, I stuff the nail polishes into my pocket.

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  Done.

  Perfect.

  My heart is racing nonetheless and I know it’s time for me to get out. At the front of the store I walk casually through an empty checkout line and am within feet of the doors when someone steps in front of me. It’s the man.

  Excuse me, I say, trying to make my way around him.

  He doesn’t move.

  I realize that he’s blocking my way on purpose.

  What happened to those bottles of nail polish you had?

  My cheeks burn. My heart explodes into tiny pieces and scatters across the linoleum. The bottles of nail polish in my pocket grow to enormous proportions, sucking all the air out of the store.

  I left them in a different aisle, I stammer. I decided not to buy them.

  Show me, he says.

  Slowly I lead him back to the toy aisle where I had so confidently put the little bottles into my pocket.

  I point to a shelf.

  I left them here, I say, shrugging.

  There is a moment in which I think he almost believes me, but then I see a glint in his eye. He has been waiting all day for this.

  Empty your pockets, he says.

  WHEN MY PARENTS ARRIVE, I am sitting in the manager’s office, the two bottles of nail polish and their perfectly matched lipsticks lined up in a neat row in plain view on the manager’s desk. My mother immediately begins to cry.

  The manager tells all of us that he could have called the cops but didn’t. My parents nod and thank him. I stare at the floor. Then he says that I’m not allowed to enter the Kmart without parental supervision. I burn with shame. After that it seems like hours before we all walk out of the store, but the whole affair really only takes about twenty minutes.

  My parents’ reaction is more extreme than I imagined it would be. They close the restaurant early and the three of us get in the Volvo to go home. The drive is painfully quiet. My mother sniffles here and there in the front passenger seat and my father keeps both hands on the wheel.

  At home my mother gently tells me to go to my room, which I do. I sit on the edge of my bed, with the door closed, my backpack still hooked over one shoulder, unsure of what to do with myself. I feel miserable. Heavy and undeserving. I drop my bag on the floor and curl into the pillows, crying.

  Later that night, at dinner, my parents try to talk to me about it. We are sitting at the glass Eames table in the kitchen. Beyond the bay windows the backyard is a large square of green that promptly drops off into the bay. The sun is setting and two fat pelicans sit out on the end of the dock, carefully watching for their dinner.

  This is my fault, my mother says. Her food sits untouched in front her. Is it Florida? Do you hate it here?

  I am silent. I keep wondering what would have happened if I had just put the nail polishes down and walked out.
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  Gerry, my mom asks my dad, do you think it’s the school system? I know the schools were better in Atlanta, but maybe Bruner is worse than we thought.

  My father is silent.

  Honey—she turns back to me again—is it your dad? Are you scared?

  I groan inwardly. I knew she was going to bring up the cancer.

  He’s going to be fine, she says, and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

  She reaches across the table and takes my hand.

  Honey, look at me.

  I look up. My mother’s face is lined with worry, her perfect hair tucked behind her ears.

  It’s the restaurant, isn’t it? She sighs now, leaning back in her chair and covering her face with her hands.

  How can I tell her that it has nothing to do with any of this? That it’s something else entirely? That there’s some kind of rage built up in me, a desperate loneliness brought on by simple adolescence and a sense of false immortality?

  I can’t.

  So I lie.

  I nod yes, when she asks if it’s been hard for me to have her working so much, knowing, even at fourteen, that this will be a swift punch to her gut. But also knowing that it will be the only thing that will put a stop to her questions.

  After dinner I am sent to my room again. I leave the door open this time and can hear them in the kitchen, talking in hushed tones at the table, long after they have finished eating.

  I lie across my bed and stare at my math homework. The numbers shrink and grow, dancing across the page, mocking me. I have the urge to crumple up the work sheet, to throw it in the trash. So I do. But after a few minutes I dig it out again, smoothing the wrinkles away with my hand.

  I am lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, when my mother appears. She taps on the doorframe before coming in.

  Honey, can I talk to you?

  I curl onto one side in response. I want to sink through the mattress and disappear.

  Oh, sweetie, she says, lying down opposite me on the other side of the bed.

  Do you know how much I love you? She smoothes the hair away from my face when she says this, but I keep my eyes down, staring at the pink bedspread.

  Do you know that being your mom is the best thing that ever happened to me?

  I don’t look up.

  Sometimes I think about how I almost didn’t get to have you, she continues. I wanted to have a child all my life, but at a certain point I convinced myself that it wasn’t going to happen.

  I am listening to her carefully now.

  When I met your father I was thirty-seven. My time was almost up. Besides, your dad was so much older and had raised three kids already.

  Sally, he said to me one day, I don’t want you to miss out on this experience.

  I think I fell even more in love with him that day. We started trying soon after that, and I got pregnant surprisingly easily.

  But a few weeks into it I miscarried.

  I have never heard this part of the story before, and I lie very still, afraid that if I move she’ll stop talking.

  I was devastated. I don’t think I got out of bed for a month. I didn’t talk to your father for two weeks. That was when I realized how badly I wanted to be a mother.

  But after a while your father convinced me to try again, and we did. I held my breath all the way through the pregnancy, so afraid that I was going to lose you. But I didn’t.

  She turns her head to me now and runs a hand down my cheek. I’ve adored being your mother, Claire. Sometimes I think it’s the only thing I did right with my life.

  She is crying now. I can tell by the way her voice has gone tighter. I still can’t bring myself to look at her.

  We’ll get through this. Okay, sweetie? I promise.

  I finally look up at her and nod the tiniest nod.

  She turns on her side, pulling me into her like a comma, and we lie like that for a long time.

  THE NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL I avoid Tonia in the halls. I briefly consider hiding out in the bathroom, skipping Home Ec, but I can’t afford to get in any more trouble.

  Tonia walks by my desk at the start of class.

  Hey, she says.

  Hey, I say back.

  I want to tell her what happened. She’s still my best friend.

  I got caught, I say. Stealing nail polish at Kmart.

  She blinks. Something in her demeanor shifts. Wow, are you okay?

  Not really, I say.

  That sucks, she says, and I look down, grateful for her sympathy. I hope everything turns out okay, she says softly, before she turns toward Jamie, taking a seat next to her a few tables away.

  After school I head home. My mother has decided that she doesn’t want me going to the restaurant after school anymore, and that for a while at least she’s going to take the afternoons off.

  My sneakers crunch on the oyster-shell driveway and the math book in my book bag feels impossibly heavy. When I walk in through the front door, it is immediately clear that something is wrong.

  My mother is sitting on one of the couches in the formal living room, the one that we never sit in. My father is sitting next to her, when he is supposed to be at work. My mother is crying, and my father has his arm around her shoulder, his head bent toward hers.

  My insides harden together like cement. I shouldn’t have lied to her. I should have just told the truth that I wasn’t stealing because she was working all the time. That it was for Tonia, so we could be friends again.

  I stand in the doorway a moment longer before they notice me. I have to tell her. I have to tell her how much I love her. How she is actually my best friend. How glad I am that she got to have me.

  My dad looks up first.

  Claire.

  My mother looks up sharply then, her breath catching in a sob.

  Claire, my dad says, come sit down.

  My feet are heavy, shuffling across the rug.

  My mother blots her tears, and when I try to sit on the couch opposite them, my mother reaches out for me.

  Come sit with me, sweetie. She is choking on the words.

  I drop my bag on the floor and sit down next to my mother, who pulls me into her. She is hot all over, and her body jags against me with each wave of crying. I am frightened now.

  My father leans over, one arm around my mother, the other around me. I peer up at him from underneath my mother’s embrace.

  Claire, he says, we just found out that your mother has colon cancer.

  Chapter Three

  2002, I’M TWENTY-FOUR YEARS OLD.

  I’M STANDING OVER the cluttered desk of the West Coast editor of Big Fancy Magazine. Behind her Hollywood shimmers through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her spacious office.